


Foggy Nights and Cloudy Days

by pineapple_utopia



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Dialogue Light, Gen, Original Character(s), POV Third Person, Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-29
Updated: 2020-08-12
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:01:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25593217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pineapple_utopia/pseuds/pineapple_utopia
Summary: Strange things happen. That's a granted in life. However, some things are stranger than others, and things tend to get a little weird when you find yourself to be an unknowing harbinger of terror.I have no intention of bringing in canon characters from The Magnus Archives.
Kudos: 1





	1. Wake-Up Call

**Author's Note:**

> canon? what's that? the apocalypse has not happened and I will enjoy some toned down horror rather than whatever bullshit goes down in the magnus archives. there's only crazy people there I tell ya  
> also ignoring the real life apocalypse. i will write my preferred taste of misery please and thank you

Pain. That’s the first thing that he notices. How much it hurts. Not everything hurts, in fact, far fewer things hurt than they usually do. But the feeling of his lungs burning and pressing tight against his chest as if they’re going to burst like overfilled balloons, isn’t something he’s used to. His throat burns in a similar manner, but nearly anything else is so numb that the very extent of its numbness almost makes it painful. There is no air for him, even if he could reach it. His lungs strain for something they can’t have. There is pain, and that’s all he knows. There is nothing but. He doesn’t think. He doesn’t even try to. Whatever crosses his mind is foggy, like it is in a dream. Things happen in dreams, but you never really think about them or make any conscious choice about them when they do, only experience. The thinking comes when you wake up. These feelings stretch on and on, running past infinity and laughing at its shortness. Somewhere, he knows he caused this. With full intent and purpose, too. It's not shocking or strange, but fact. 

Finally, there’s something else. It arrives as anything does in a dream, taking the form of a concept rather than any definitive image. It’s a choice. A choice with two options. One is certain and short, and the other is unsteady and long. Both make the pain stop. Floating in semi-consciousness, he makes his decision. The choice fades, and there is nothing but the pain. Then the dreaminess starts to lift away. He feels more aware. More awake. The numbness in his body crawls off bit by bit, allowing the feeling to flow back into his limbs. Then he notices something new.

It’s dark. Not the dark in an unlit room or a field in nighttime. Real dark. There is such an absence of light that it’s oppressive, and he can’t tell if his eyes are open or not. Sight is useless at this moment. He can feel himself resting inside something. If anything, gravity is possibly still working. There’s soft all around, but the softness is laid on top of something hard, and that something hard makes it impossible to go anywhere. It’s big enough to hold him, and nothing else. Unsure of the realness of the something around him, he lifts his hand. It hits the soft material with a muffled knock. Feels like fabric. Feels like fabric on top of wood. The pain in his lungs remains as strong as ever.

He needs to go up. There’s no obvious reason that presents itself as to why, but the thought digs at him insistently. Instead of questioning where the motive came from, he tries to push against whatever it is he’s in and is startled by the sudden feeling of his hand… missing the surface he was pushing. It didn’t collapse, or fall away from him, or even give way, his hand simply went past it into thin air. Well, no, what his hand is in doesn’t feel like thin air. Thick air, maybe? It feels odd. As if… it was transparent? That feels like the best description. Moving through whatever it is takes a mite of effort.

Trying to repeat the action with his other hand, he finds that now he has two hands reaching past what  _ should  _ be a solid surface. That’s definitely not normal. A doubt on the actual existence of this solid surface starts to emerge. Trying to test the theory, he sits up. Having successfully done so, the doubt grows stronger. It was surprisingly easy, as reason would have it that he would’ve bumped into the thing inches away from his face. He stands up. Immediately, the feeling of transparency spreads through his entire body. 

Up. He needs to go up. There’s still something in the way. Raising his hands over his head, something seems to give way and allow his lower arms to emerge from the feeling of transparency. There is a new texture ringing around right about where the transparency ends. It's dirt. Dirt and grass. Everything beyond feels… empty. Realizing that the empty might be where he’s trying to go, he strains to grab onto the grass above and pull. He needs to go up. The grass rips in his grip, but he pulls, and strains, and climbs, and as he’s struggling to do what would logically be impossible, all of a sudden he finds himself above ground. Clutching the earth with his fists, torso still buried underneath. 

There is air. The moon casts a faint light, but it seems too bright compared to what he had been experiencing just before. The burning in his lungs grows stronger. Gritting his teeth, he renews his efforts, finding it much easier to shove against the ground than pull up from beneath it. As his feet leave the ground, he falls onto his hands and knees. The odd transparency has gone away, but the burn is unbearable. 

He retches as a bubbling feeling builds inside his chest. Water starts leaking out from his mouth, and with a sickly lurch, the leak becomes a flow. With every gallon that splatters against the dirt, he feels lighter. Once the earth beneath his face is soaked and muddy, he strains to take a raspy breath. Before he can properly inhale, a cough racks through him. The taste of lake water sticks to the back of his sore throat. The pressure in his chest has subsided. The burn has stopped.

Spluttering, he struggles to catch hold of the air he’s surrounded by. Air-  _ Air! _ There’s air in his lungs instead of water, and he’s taken a breath! He does it again. And again. And then again. The pain which held him in it’s vice grip for so long has washed away. Trembling under the weight of his relief, he staggers to his feet. The rediscovery of air is still fresh, and he takes as deep of a breath as he can manage. On the air is the smell of grass, and flowers, and dirt, and stone. What skin the air can touch is cooled by it, and things are quiet. Not the restraining quiet of where he was, where no sound could reach, but the quiet where there is only gentle noise. The wind blows, and crickets chirp and grass rustles. A chuckle escapes him. Alarm shoves relief out of the way as his knees buckle, and he throws his hands out against a nearby headstone to save himself. Taking a shaky breath, he slowly kneels down in front of it. God, where did the dizziness come from? Fatigue hangs heavy in him. Believing it’s as good a chance as any, he lets out a deep sigh and allows himself to simply sit and relax. On some level, he already felt the feeling of fabric around him, but actually seeing the suit he’s wearing is strange. The particular suit is something he’s never seen before, and there was certainly nothing near close as nice in his metaphorical closet. Having not felt the brush of his hair against his shoulders or neck but still bearing its weight, he guesses it’s been done up. A deep breath in. A deep breath out. 

Once his composure has been gained, he focuses on actually looking at his surroundings. The realization feels obvious, but it strikes him that he’s in a cemetery. There are lines of graves all around, and right in front of him is a headstone. He had noticed it before, but properly seeing it there causes an inkling of suspicion to curl within his stomach. He can already guess what it says, but it’s better to be sure. Brushing his hand against its surface, he traces the lettering that’s carved into the polished stone. 

**Michael Jolliner**

**1988-2020**

That’s  _ him.  _ That’s his name. Somehow this doesn’t surprise him. In fact, he’s relieved. Dying was something he meant to do, and to see proof that it actually happened seems like a wish come true. Admittedly, he didn’t expect to be able to rise from the dead and drag himself out of the ground as if he was from a zombie movie, but… He’s going to ignore it. There's things to do.


	2. Roadtrip to: Location Pending

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michael does some reminiscing and also some denial

Drifting past row after row of seats until he arrives at the very back of the bus, Michael edges between the strange-patterned seats and sits down against the window, backpack set near his feet. Even if the front had been vacant, he would’ve settled himself back here. Chances are, no one will know he was even on this ride. Turns out whatever happened to him made it so boarding a bus without a ticket was rather easy. People simply couldn’t see him do it. Michael wouldn’t say he didn’t feel at least a little guilty about that, but it’s not like building a new life from scratch is easy. It’s not as if he could access any of his past resources either, being... Well, nevermind. Not like he had that much to begin with. It was helpful that he was able to sell that nice suit for a bit of money, though. Not enough to live off of, but every cent counts.

Propping his head up with his fist, Michael lets his gaze wander towards the outside scenery. With minimal possessions, there’s nothing to do but think. As the bus lurches and starts chugging it’s way along the road, he loses himself within thought.

There were a couple of things he realized after that night in the cemetery. Such as how goddamn weird his initial reaction was to seeing his own goddamn name on a fucking grave. What the  _ hell? _ Shock is one hell of a drug, apparently. Whatever. He’s willing to sweep it all under the rug and pretend he dyed his hair shock white, instead of it turning that color all on it’s own. The one good thing from this is that he could finally get eight hours of sleep after decades of insomnia.  _ That  _ was the most amazing part to him. The elusive reward of a good night’s sleep is trillions better than every weird thing that’s been cropping up like nobody’s business. Even better than the inexplicable invisibility, one of the most well-known and sought after powers. Probably. The fact he’s able to do that sort of thing unnerves him, but it makes avoiding people that think he’s still... not around, much easier. It’s nice. 

Avoiding people that know him also happens to be the reason he’s trying to leave town. Fourteen years in one place can make you sentimental, but heading off somewhere not a single person knows his face is feeling very attractive. A more cautious person would suggest he should try going by an alias, but frankly, ‘Michael’ is an extremely common name. Maybe, at the very least, he should swap his last name out for something else, like Shelley. Thinking briefly about that possibility, Michael concludes that that’s fucking stupid and that he isn’t going to do that. He doubts he’s ever going to end up giving someone his last name for anything. No legal papers to speak of, so he’ll be doing the limbo whenever the law is involved. It’s  _ fun _ that way. Kinda. Maybe. Not really. 

A deep sigh rolls out of him. There’s a plethora of things he could say he misses with full honesty. Such as his collection of mugs and newspapers. Those were years in the making. Aunt Ollie probably has all of his old things by now. Assuring himself that he has all the time in the world to gather up whatever items he wants to be sentimental about, Michael turns his mind to other things before he can sink into the treacherous trap of regret. The thought of never having to speak to people again is bittersweet. Of course, there will be the occasional awkward conversations with strangers in public, but that hardly counts. 

Several hours of this sort of engrossed thought rolls by as the bus makes its stops. Having never made the plan of where to go, Michael decides to get off only once he’s sick of sitting, waiting only long enough for the next time people are allowed off. As the bus slows, he pulls himself away from the window and stands, picking up his bag and slinging it easily over his shoulders. A few tired passengers shuffle out of their seats and towards the head of the bus. Only until the last one has risen does Michael follow suit, always staying a few paces behind the last person in line. As everyone files out, he’s left free to stand in the light of a Greyhound city bus stop. 

What next? Michael wonders why he didn’t bother to come up with anything beyond getting out of where he used to live. Tapping a finger idly against one backpack strap, he picks a random direction and starts walking. A place to eat is the start to any good plan. Getting a map from somewhere might not hurt, either. Spotting a chain store fast food restaurant of your choice, Michael approaches the building and walks in, finally allowing the obscurity to fade from him as the door swings to a close. Can’t eat healthy on a budget. Unfortunately. 

Going through the motions, he puts down an order, gets the little receipt with his number on it, and drops himself down at a table, bag over a chair’s back. The artificial lights blare against the plastic tables and chairs, bleaching each person inside in a sickly white light. Sitting there feels a little surreal. A fast food place is one of the most mundane locations one can find themselves in, and the idea that he was in a very much not mundane place just a week ago is strange. It’s true he’s been tiptoeing around said idea in an effort to avoid confronting the impossibility of whatever he did and whatever it is he’s become because of it, but heyyyyyyyyy… At least there’s fast food. Good old greasy fast food. 

Leaning forward, he drags his hands down his face. Perhaps him being here is actually something that’s plausible. It was March 24th he... what date is it now? That could clue him in to what it was a week ago. Is he even alive? Could he constitute as a ghost or a ghoul? Or some other undead creature? Is this some hallucination? Every bit of him seems pretty alive.

“Everything’s fine,” He mutters, as if saying the words out loud will make them true. Having at least some idea of what’s going on and why would be nice. It feels like knowing what happened is a requirement, and he’s just lied on his resume. The tricky part is, none of it has seemed totally bad so far. Does he really  _ need  _ to know? Would knowing make things worse? Sure, there was the, uhm.  _ Thing _ he did, but besides all the permanent consequences of that massively big decision, and some would say mistake, everything’s been pretty amazing. Such as sleeping for eight straight hours. No biggie. All smalls. 

“Number thirty-four,” The cashier calls. Shaking himself out of his thoughts, Michael takes a deep breath and stands up, returning to the counter for his order. Stick to the matter at hand. 

“What’s the date?” He asks. It’s not an entirely strange question, but he’s convinced he’s committing some kind of war crime by asking.

“Uhh… August 5th.” 

“Ah. That’s… great. Thanks.” The cashier, not particularly caring about the hundredth stranger they’ve seen that day, shrugs. A second later and Michael is back to minorly freaking out at a table and pretending that’s not what’s happening, but this time with food. If it was July 29th he, uh. Woke up, then how is he…? No. No, nope, no. No.

A plan. That’s what needs to be focused on. Not whatever the hell he was on about before. Michael chews on his fries as he stews within a pit of frustration. Adding more miles between him and his old home would be preferable. Planning out a road trip seems like a good next step. Seeing a new state might be nice. Sneaking onto more buses is a likely future. 

Wow. Seriously considering travel feels dissonant. It’s not at all a bad thing within itself, it’s simply strange. Would never be something he’d say he’s used to. All the long-distance traveling he’s done before this is taking a one way trip from one place to the other, and that’s it. Not exactly what one would call a seasoned traveler. The more he ponders upon his own inexperience, the more he thinks getting a map and doing some research might be a good idea. Guess the library is the next stop. 

Glancing down at the tray before him, Michael feels a sense of dissatisfaction. He’s not about to claim its top tier cuisine, but so far it hasn’t felt filling. Hopefully, that’ll be a passing feeling to forget about. Doesn’t need to be, anyways. Food is still food. Ready to move on, he takes another bite. 

\---

Once he’s left the restaurant and is on his way towards the library- wherever that might be- Michael has to realize he actually has no clue where to find it. There must be a way to get there without asking someone off the street, right? Man, he should really work on his planning. Sighing, he resigns himself to walking around aimlessly. The streets are hot and tiresome, with it's gray pavements and blaring lights. We're it evening and cool, perhaps the journey wouldn't be so bothersome. As an hour of wandering throughout a commercial area passes by, the feeling of being watched grows. With a face in every window, it's no wonder. As he slows to a stop at a streetlight, he notices a stout person approaching him with a wide smile. His first instinct is to look over his shoulder to check if there's someone else, but they stop uncomfortably close to him. There's a mischievous glint in their eye, hidden behind green tinted three-lens glasses.

"Can I… help you?"

"Nope, but I can help YOU!" 

Promptly, they pull out a piece of paper from their pocket, stuffing it into his hand with a wink. Once done, they turn to disappear into the now moving crowd. Confounded, Michael looks slowly down at the paper in his hand. Opening it up reveals a set of directions. That's… rather odd. Deciding not to look a gift horse in the mouth, Michael continues on his way, now guided.

\---

Libraries are quiet. Peaceful, but dull to those who’ve never read. There are people that do slow walks through the aisles, trying to spot a book they want to drag out from the shelves. Occasionally some people are present in order to research, or simply love the smell of print. Now there is Michael, sitting in front of a library computer looking at Google Maps. Having this knowledge easily accessible and located at people’s very fingertips is a useful advancement many take for granted, but a new phone isn’t one of the things he’s bought so far. He has a separate tab open, used for surface level digs at whatever state name he happens to glance across next.

When his decision has been made, it’s not from anything so much as ‘it sounds neat,’ and a healthy dose of ‘why not?’ Michael presses print, waiting for the papers to slide out. Sure, there are better maps, but he’d still rather pay less than a dollar to print some form of direction rather than being forced to go off of nothing at all. Even if he gets himself a bit off track, it won’t be a huge loss. There’s not much in his life right now, and he finds himself not particularly caring where he ends up next. 

It’s still distance. Having a destination in mind happens to be grounding, is all.

As he finishes tucking the newly printed maps into his bag, Michael feels his mind drifting towards the set of directions he'd been handed. Why? How? The ability to parse out those questions escapes him. He looks over to see someone across the room, sitting on the floor. Their nose is buried in a thick book. A collection of other novels sit beside them in disorganized piles. At the feeling of his eyes on them, they glance upwards. A look of confusion flashes across their face, replaced by worry. In hurried movements, they gather up everything around them and speed walk away. It’s a habit of their’s to spend every possible moment at the library, shutting down any social invitation or attempt at conversation they receive, only to bemoan their lack of friends whenever they aren’t distracting themselves with books. There would be no one to notice if they went missing, and it’s terrifying to them.

That’s… an oddly specific thing to think about. Looking away, Michael reminds himself not to make assumptions about people. It’s about time he leaves, anyways.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did some experimentation and also came later than I wanted to be w this but hey  
> I will not proceed to be on time afterwards I made no promises to you and still have 0 idea where the plot will go if there is one at all  
> It's all just vibes and self indulgence


End file.
